


Her, him and I

by Hermit9



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Eileen Leahy, Camping, Canon Divergent, Case Fic, Casual Ableism, F/M, Season/Series 12, Smut, Stargazing, there are other hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 05:39:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13780884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9
Summary: They've finally settled into a comfortable routine, and now Dean's kicking them out of the Bunker because the Brits are coming over. It's a lame excuse, but Sam's okay with it; he could use a good hunt with Eileen. The three of them make a great pair.





	Her, him and I

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Pimento for the beta!

The bunker has no windows and no easy access to the outside world. Yet Gadreel can feel the sun as it rises, he knows when the light will reach them. The warding on the bunker dulls his senses but doesn’t quite block them. He has grown accustomed to it, almost comforted by the haziness it brings. Eileen moves, her circadian rhythm reacting to the sun even though it is hidden from them. Such wonderful, complex, creatures his Father created. 

“How long have you been watching me sleep?” she asks. She pushes herself up so she can face him.

“Not long,” he lies. He runs a hand down her back, soothing the aches there, warming the goosebumps. She purrs a bit under the ministrations.

“You’re a bad liar, you know?” she says, but doesn’t give him time to answer. She drops to kiss at the juncture of his neck, up the side of his jaw and right below his ear. 

“I know,” he huffs to himself, before turning and claiming a proper kiss. She is sleep warm and soft, her lips part easily for him. Both of their breaths are musty but neither care. Gadreel could wave the issue away with a flicker of grace, but he has come to enjoy the little animalistic aspects of the human experience.

Gadreel kisses her without hurry, it’s early and they have nowhere to go. Eileen sighs into the rhythm, kissing back and draped across his chest, small enough that his hands cover most of her back as they stroke up and down her spine. He can feel the nerves spark in the wake of the movement, the bright blue-white thrum of her soul in between the cells. She breaks the kiss, biting at his lower lip as she pulls back. Her lips are swollen and the fine skin around it red and angry from the cat-like rubbing against the roughness of the beard growth on his cheeks. 

There is a gleam in her eyes, a hint of wickedness. It’d be so easy to discern the shape of her thought. Gadreel refrains because mind reading is a violation and out of bounds. Not that Eileen hides her intention all that long, swinging a leg over him and leaning down for more kisses, hungry and heated now. She presses her knees against him, digging into his ribs. Gadreel smiles and yield. She cannot hurt him not really, but whoever took his love for a weak one because of her stature would be sorely disappointed. 

She kisses his jaw and down his throat, and down further leaving wet trails with her lips and tongue. Until she can gently bite at a nipple, licking to soothe the pebbled flesh. Gadreel taps her shoulder so she reads his lips. 

“You’re sore I don’t want to cause you...” It’s not a question. He can read from her nerves and muscles.

“You talk too much” Eileen replies, stretching behind her to run her fingers along his cock. She keeps the touch light, barely tapping the tips of her fingers on the skin, a ghost of a touch. Gadreel exhales sharply, all thoughts of the sun and stars forgotten. Eileen smirks. She knows him too well, knows how much the physicality of their relationships still takes his breath away. To be perfectly honest, Gadreel has no idea how the vast majority of the humans covering the planet manage to untangle from each other long enough to keep their world functioning.

He growls, low in his ribs so she can feel the vibration and turns them over. Eileen giggles as she resettles against the bed. She looks up at him, amused and trusting with laughter in her eyes and short breaths. She twines her fingers in his hair as he takes his turn tasting her, kissing her neck and shoulders, hands roaming to cup and squeeze at her breasts. Eileen rolls her hips, impatient beneath him. Gadreel sat immobile in his cell for eons — patience is all he has — but he indulges her. 

He backs away, straightening his spine as he looks at her. Her hair is messy on the pillow and her eyes are ravenous. She hooks her legs around his waist, pulling closer, and snakes a hand down his body to guide him in. He bites his lip as he slips into the warm heat of her. Eileen hisses a bit, sore, but digs her heels into his back and locks him there. 

Gadreel waits until she relaxes then rocks his hips, slowly building up to a rhythm. He braces on either side of her head, on his elbow so he can kiss her. He’s acutely aware of the so many ways he could break her, of how careful he needs to be. Eileen grabs at his shoulder, the other hand winding in his hair and pulling. Demanding more. She releases his shoulder when he speeds up, her hand between their bodies, adding pressure on top of the mons pubis, fingertips brushing against his cock. 

The world narrows further, to sensation and electricity and the building fire at the base of his spine. Gadreel bites his lip, breathing and huffing into her hair, her neck, her shoulder. Willing to make himself wait and last, not yet. Eileen pulls at his hair, makes him meet her eyes, pupils blown by lust and her breath coming out in short muffled moans. She nods, once.

He reaches out with tendrils of his grace, careful, just a connection, not proding. Taking what she offers but no more. Her mind is beautiful, her soul pulsing and warm under his grace and he yearns for more. The denial, almost but not quite, as intoxicating as the permission granted. He can feel her own climax building, like waves. She’s chanting his name in her thoughts. His real name, devoid of anger or resentment or malice, like a mantra just shy of a prayer. “I love you,” she says there, where he cannot doubt the words, as her body curls and pulls him even deeper. The whiteout pleasure of it washes over him, pushing him over the edge. It’s all he can do to restrain his grace from spinning out of control. He rolls off her, spent, satiated and happy, letting his consciousness fade into the warmth of it all. 

His limbs and brain are heavy and warm, fuzzy and coming back online. Sticky. He chuffles, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Still a great way to wake up,” says Sam, squeezing Eileen with one arm and rubbing the other hand over his face.

“Good morning, sleepy head,” says Eileen, smiling.

A loud series of bangs rattles the door. “Kitchen. I’m making waffles.” Dean pauses, then adds, “showers first. But we’ve got a case, so make it quick.”

Sam and Eileen burst out laughing. “Think there was a power spike again?” asks Eileen, as she sits up. 

“Probably.” Sam stretches and gets out of bed, limbering up. There’s no residual aches or stiffness, no pain. His fingers brush over the thigh where a bullet hole should be, but only find unbroken skin. He spends a few moments in quiet gratitude. Gadreel’s grace had been badly mangled by Lady Bevell’s banishing sigil and the warding around the basement where she’d kept Sam. He was still recovering, stronger than after the Fall — not by much — so the fact that he was able to repair the physical damage is a miracle. There’s a roll of warmth somewhere between Sam’s ribs, but no reply. “Let’s go see what Dean wants.”

Dean is scooping batter into the waffle irons, three of them lined up on the counter. Nothing but rust and patina differentiates between the original one they dug out of the Bunker’s supply closet and the brand new one Dean saw on Black Friday and just had to get. Some things reach technological zenith faster than others. Dean places a plate with two burnt waffles in front of Sam and raises an eyebrow. Sam can feel himself blush and docks his head without comment, drowning them in syrup. Dean gives the properly browned and fluffy waffles to Eileen and gets a kiss on the cheek as a reward. He smiles, a bit goofily.

“Jody called,” Dean says as Sam settles down. He leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “She’s got a lead on a case, three deaths so far. Animal attacks according to local P.O. but she says it looks like our kind of thing.”

“She’s not handling it herself?” asked Eileen.

“Nah, she heard about it through the grapevine but it’s too far outside of Sioux Falls. So how about you three lovebirds go and check it out?”

Eileen puts down her fork and leans forward, frowning. “You’re not coming with us?”

“Mom texted me, she’s coming over tomorrow.” Dean looks at Sam, and there’s worry there, mixed with guilt. “And while I’m not going to tell her to stay out, her pet brit is probably going to be with her.”

“So I shouldn’t be here,” Eileen completes for him. Sam is grateful, he doesn’t want to dwell on it. He misses his mother, now that he’d had a chance to know her, but he won’t let the British Men of Letters get their hands on Eileen.

Sam clears his throat. “All right, where are we going?”

“Utah,” says Dean, gesturing to the laptop on the table before turning to attend to the waffles. 

Utah turns out to be nearly Arizona, by the edge of a large nature reserve. Fine red sand covers everything when the wind blows, but Sam is grateful for the breeze as it breaks the heat. The red cliffs overlook the town, though recent construction mars the pristine presence of them. It looks like something out of old wild-west stories. Sam knows something is up, Dean is hiding something. It’s not like his brother to pass up a chance to pretend he’s a cowboy.

They split up to cover more ground. Eileen handles the police officers and the medical examiner while Sam goes to call on the friends and family. For something Jody heard through the grapevine the file is maybe a touch too complete. 

The victims all knew each other. Early twenties, fit, hiking enthusiasts. They were found on a hiking trail, the bodies tangled like they were dumped without care. Sam sits through recounted stories about the dead, murmurs words of condolences and learns nothing. No strange occurrences, no threats, no reason anyone would have wanted these people dead. 

“This is weird,” signs Eileen when they join up. “The police were waiting for me. They were happy.”

“Yeah, I got that sense too. This isn’t the first time hunters rolled up.” Sam smiles at the waitress as she comes to get their order, signing her questions to Eileen. The waitress’ smile slips and she looks at him confused before leaving with her order pad.

“What did you get?” Sam asks once they’re relatively alone again. The diner is on the edge of an industrial park. It smells like grease, burnt coffee, dust and stale sweat. The few other patrons are ignoring each other. It’s a good place for secrets, for transients. The cook and waitress obviously know their regulars, but would be oblivious should anyone ask about them. 

Eileen passes a folder over to Sam. “They handed me the whole thing as soon as I walked in. Photos are at the back so you can read.” 

Sam nods and skims through the pages. Incident report, lab report, autopsy reports, all neatly filled and typed and organized. He doesn’t dig too deep because he intends to enjoy his food, but it doesn’t dissipate the feeling of wrongness. Of things being too easy.

“Here you are, sugar,” says the waitress as she puts the plates down. She puts Sam’s overdressed chicken house salad in front of him and the Reuben sandwich barely towards the center of the table, crowding the potato skins. She doesn’t acknowledge Eileen at all. Sam blinks and looks over the spread, laid out as if he had ordered it all for himself. He raises his eye to the waitress, jaw working and brows furrowed, but Eileen catches his attention before he can say anything.

“Doesn’t matter,” she signs, and pulls the sandwich towards her. “Eat.”

Sam shakes his head, unclenches his jaw and rolls his shoulder loose. He’s made strides in managing his anger, but he still hates how the world treats Eileen. “So, where were the vics found?” he asks instead, letting the subject drop.

“Not far. Eat up.”

Not far turns out to be on the outskirt of the industrial park, with some gravel and sand pit as an unmarked parking area. The rumble of the freight trucks on the highway sends vibrations through the dry ground. Rocky hills rise in the distance, pale ochre and strewn with stunted vegetation. There’s a sun-faded sign, pointing towards a beaten earth hiking trail; Eileen’s car is the only one in the parking area. 

“Popular spot,” says Sam, shouldering the larger of the backpacks. He’s not even surprised that Eileen packed them bags. He would never tell Dean, but she’s a much better partner for this kind of hunt. Not that hunting a wendigo with peanut M&Ms as their only supplies was a bad time but… He isn’t twenty anymore.

The relative isolation gives them plenty of time to adjust as the police car turns off the highway and towards them, kicking up plumes of dust behind it. The lights are out and there’s no sirens, which Sam takes to be a good thing. Eileen closes the trunk and makes sure the lock catches, hiding away the not-quite-legal arsenal that comes with the job. 

“I’m supposed to tell you the trail’s closed because of boulder falls,” says the deputy as he exits the car. 

“But that’s not what you’re going to tell us?” Eileen comes forward, cinching the straps of her pack around her waist.

“Hell no. Came over to give you the file from the cold case piles. Same type of thing happened five years ago, then some gruff looking type rolled into town and made the whole thing vanish. Figured I could give y’all a leg up this time.”

“Why not call the ones that solved your first case?” Eileen grabs the folder as she asks the question, but doesn’t open it.

“The name they gave me was fake, the numbers burner phones from what the tech nerds told me. Figured they weren’t the only ones, let a few things slip.”

“And us?” Sam asks now, curious.

“Same as five years ago, I reckon. You don’t exist, I’ve never seen you and I don’t want to know what’s going on a couple of miles from the wilderness marker down the trail.”

Sam can hear Eileen answering something, but the words don’t reach him. Five years ago. Five years ago he was… Out on the highway, a motorcycle flies by them with a loud bang. It’s probably some gases backfiring in the motor and Dean could tell him all about it, but it sounds almost like firecrackers in a closed room.

The bag’s heavy on his back, so Gadreel adjusts the straps so the weight is correctly distributed and straightens his shoulders. Sam has terrible posture, they need to talk about this at some point. The man is still talking, but he pays little attention to the words. The distrust and fear paint a much clearer image. Eileen turns to look at him when he takes the folder, raising an eyebrow in question. She can always tell who’s in front of her, it would be foolish to try to hide it. 

“He needs a moment,” Gadreel signs, before opening the file. 

“Well, I’ll leave you kids to it. Make sure you have plenty of water.” The deputy slaps a hand on the hood of his car and folds back inside, all too happy to be gone. 

“That’s odd,” says Eileen, as she watches him go. 

“Not particularly,” answers Gadreel, still reading. “It makes sense that law enforcement is bound to be at least somewhat cognizant of the supernatural if Hunters keep walking into their territories. We operate under willful blindness, most of the time.”

Eileen makes a non-committal noise and grabs his elbow. “Come on. This trail isn’t going to walk itself.” 

Gadreel turns the page and frowns. “Lead and I will follow. I wish I could get us there faster.”

“Missing your wings again?”

“Always.” 

The trail is flat and wide and easy enough to walk, even distracted. Gadreel reads through the reports as he follows Eileen. Something is wrong, though he cannot put his finger on it. It feels like an itch at the back of his head, somewhere he can’t reach. It nags at him, almost as much as the wrongness of the place nags at him. He can feel the plants and the insects bustling around them, brushing against the awareness of his grace. But there’s nothing bigger. No mice or rodents, no birds of prey, no slumbering preys or predators. It is empty and unnatural. He concentrates on slowing his stride down so that Eileen doesn’t get winded. After two-thirds of a mile, they cross a different trail and their own narrows to only one lane. Gadreel folds the documents into Eileen’s bag and drops back.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Eileen asks, resettling the bag on her shoulder and glancing back at Sam.

“I… Not really?” He shrugs. “Not now, anyway.”

“Alright. But you know you can talk to me right?” She starts walking again and Sam could kiss her just for that. She doesn’t push. Maybe this is why Dean gets too huffy when Sam prods for him to talk, but Dean never talks. It’s not the same. Totally not the same.

The sign to the wilderness area is a mostly faded grey piece of wood and Sam almost misses it as they walk by. What he doesn’t miss is the sudden drop as the trail leads them to the wash at the bottom of the canyon, finer white sand crunching under the sole of their boots. There are boulders in the way, half hidden in the sand and waiting to trip someone and break ankles. Sam helps Eileen down but the new terrain slows them down. The afternoon sun is relentless, making the layers of his shirts stick to his back and he can feel itching at the exposed edges of his scalp where a burn is forming. 

There’s no cell signal, no GPS location in the belly of the dead creek, so Eileen is navigating them by map while Sam handles the compass, keeping an eye out. According to the autopsy, the time of death was undetermined. There was no animal activity and very little insects on the bodies. The pathologist scribbled a post-it note indicating his best bet was early morning based on time of discovery. It wouldn’t stand in court, but Sam was happy to use it as a yardstick. They’d need to make camp for the night, somewhere sheltered. He doesn’t want to hunt an unknown beast in the dark and on no sleep if he can help it; compounded by the fact that he is still unsure what, exactly, they are hunting. Sam takes pride in his knowledge and research but the wound patterns make no sense, other than indicating either something very fast, or not very large. Deadly in all cases. 

Eileen finds the best camping place, a tunnel carved through the sandstone of the canyon wall. It’s man-made and old, the stone polished by wind and sand and the passing hands of other before them on the trail. Sam shirt is soaked through and he lays it out to dry in the last of the heat, trapped in the stone. The sun sets further to the west, painting the sky with bright colours over the reds and oranges of the rocks. It’s breathtaking, making Sam wish he had thought to bring a camera. Or that he could paint, maybe, or do anything to retain some of the beauty. He sees too much of the dark and hurting sides of the world, he figures he should take up a hobby that allows him to seek the beauty in the world he keeps saving. 

Eileen lays out the rolled blanket — smaller and lighter than sleeping bag and without zippers to trap them — and waits for Sam to join her. She leans against him as he wraps the largest blanket over them, sharing body heat. Sam fiddles with the LED camping lantern as Eileen breaks out the meal bars and bottles of water. He’s exhausted in a good way from the walk and in a slightly worst way from the heat, but he can feel Gadreel’s grace flickering over the bad spots, smoothing things out. Sam makes sure Eileen drinks a bit more water than him. She shoves granola in his hand in exchange. 

The night falls around them like a hungry thing, leaping from boulder to boulder and taking over the canyon. By the time on his watch, there should still be light, but only the deepening green and indigo of the sky is visible from their makeshift camp. Then even that drains out as the stars flood overhead. So far removed from the artificial lights of the city the milky way is a massive stroke of whites and purples.

“We used to do this,” Sam says, craning his neck to get a better view.

“Do what?” 

“Dean and me. Stop in the middle of nowhere and watch the stars.”

“Why did you say used to?” Eileen shifts the blanket so the light is trapped with them in the fabric nest they’ve made. She finds his lips with her fingers, to read the words through touch.

“We got busy I guess. And then the memories were... bittersweet. We’re no longer the people we were then.” 

They don’t talk much after that, drifting to sleep. 

Sam wakes with a startle. He takes a few deep breaths to calm the beating of his heart and pinpoint what alarmed him. It’s not close, or Gadreel would have reacted first. Eileen pushes off him, rubbing at her eyes as she reaches for the discarded lantern. Then Sam hears it again, deformed echoes bouncing off the rocks. It sounds like… an alley cat, if it was both drunk and in heat, or maybe heartbroken. A large alley cat, with powerful lungs. Sam taps his ears and pointed towards the origin of the sound, getting up and gripping his gun. Eileen follows half a step behind, scanning behind them and above for any surprises. 

It takes an hour to track the broken howls to their source, through detours in smaller slot canyons and doubling back. Eileen spots the thing first, tapping Sam’s shoulder and pointing. Sam squints, unsure as to what he’s looking at. The big cat guesses from the screeches was accurate, insofar as it was about the size of an adult lynx. If lynxes had rows of spikes growing out of their backs, long and undulating like the barbed spines of lionfish. They move and ripple with the creature, linked together by thin skin that holds green iridescence in the fledgling dawn light. More spikes grow from its paws and along its tail. 

“Butterfly koi cat?” asks Eileen, equally puzzled. 

The creature’s eyes narrow and its ears swivel towards them when she speaks. It slinks towards them, silent now. Sam would have guessed curious from its demeanour, but he can only secure the grip on his gun, uncertain. The thing is huge and could maul them easily. It rubs against the boulders, scent marking them, as it walks towards them, leaving behind an oily rainbowed sheen. It halfs purrs half growls as it reaches them, nostril flaring as it takes in their scent. Sam stays very still, but all the cat does is lie down and mew pitifully about a foot from them.

“It looks… tame?” says Eileen, stepping around Sam to get a better look. “Do you think someone’s been feeding it?” She reaches out a hand toward the creature’s face, like greeting a house cat. Its fur is dark green - almost black - with speckles of lighter green. The spots move along the creature’s body like a swarm of jellyfishes. It hisses at Eileen, the spikes rising to a stiffer position as all light colour leaves its face, making it dark and threatening. 

Gadreel grabs her hand before she can make contact. “Something is wrong,” he says. The creature stops hissing and looks confused, smelling at Gadreel’s hand as it inches closer, all aggressivity gone. It rubs a cheek against Gadreel’s leg and sparks of grace bounce off its fur, arcing from the spikes in a bright cascade. 

“That’s not normal, is it?” asks Eileen. She looks up at Gadreel. “It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anything other than a lamp bulb react to you that way.”

He frowns and nods, then tentatively reaches with his other hand. The fur is hard and needle-like, with no softness. The creature rubs against him and he can feel prickles all over his palm before his grace surges to heal him and sparks more arcs. “Cactus cats eat scorpions and have paralytic venom. The photographs the local policeman gave us showed necrotic wounds. This one has been tamed and likely fed, but I would wager it wasn’t by humans.”

“Why is it going all electric when you touch it?”

“My grace is fighting the venom. It is being hampered, which is what you’re seeing.” He closes his hand and lays two fingers on the cactus cat’s head, focusing on making it sleep. He can feel the other grace fighting him, but the animal is tired and eventually that tips the scales in his favour. It collapses on the ground, the swirling patterns stilling as well.

“Did you kill it?” asks Eileen, kneeling down to get a better look. She twists her wrist out of his grip but twines her fingers with his, not letting go. 

“No. But we need to find what else is living here.” Gadreel has a fairly good idea of what he will find, but he doesn’t express it out loud. Partially not to scare her, but mostly to soothe himself. The angel blade he hands Eileen speaks volume, hopefully, it can speak the words he will not form. 

Dawn breaks above them, chasing the crowded night sky with a relentlessly empty blue. The light only causes sharper shadows as it breaks against the canyon walls but it does make tracking easier. The scent markings glisten in the light; they leapfrog over each other, finding the next smear like an Easter egg hunt. It’s joyful and childlike and though Gadreel smiles, it does nothing to loosen the anxious knot in his chest. At the end of the trail is a cave, more like a fox’s den dug low into the rock and under the sands. It probably floods when it rains, but it would look inconspicuous to someone walking the trail and not looking for it. It would look like a trick of the light or the work of an animal. 

“You should not be here,” he says. 

Laughter slithers out of the ground as an answer. It’s sibilant and made of discordant voices, male and female, old and young, healthy and raspy, layering over each other. Somewhere in the back of his brain, where what the humans called ‘the reptile brain’ was coiled, Gadreel can sense the mounting panic at the sound. Hairs standing up, heart beating faster, his hands grow cold as the blood gets redirected. He apologizes, sincerely, and locks Sam away into a dream. The vessel calms, under his control. 

“You should not be here,” he repeats. 

“You are one to talk,” answers the voice, closer to the surface. It scratches at the ground as its legs scramble for purchase. The scales of its belly rub against the rocks, making them hit each other and add to the cacophonous noise. “You should be in jail. You should be penitent. You let the serpent in.”

“You’re the one who listened, brother.” Gadreel takes a step back, as if to better see in the sunlight. “We were both fooled by silver tongue words.”

“And we’re now both fallen, what makes you better than me?” 

The amphisbaena crawls out of its den, snarling and snapping at Gadreel. He rolls out of the way, the main head missing by a hair. He can smell the venom dripping from its fangs, it smells of sweet ichor and fermented fruits. It is unsurprising that the cactus cat was attracted to it. The amphisbaena’s tail wraps around a boulder and Gadreel scrambles backward, kicking dust into the eyes of the secondary head. “What makes you better than me brother? I’ve been cursed by our father for my disobedience.” It spits at Gadreel, the venom sizzling on the meagre plants it hits. The already dried leaves turn black and curl-up. “And you! You who failed him so! You get to parade in Lucifer’s prize-fighter, in his precious Boy-King!” The amphisbaena surges forward, furious now. The mixed sounds of its voices as it screams echoing around them until the sounds lose all meaning. Gadreel pushes away from the fanged head but the sharp talons on its chicken-like legs dig into his thigh and he cries out in pain.

“You let the rot into the Garden, brother. Your punishment was far too kind. I will remedy that now.” It brings both heads level, snarling in its best approximation of a smile. Gadreel stares them down, he refuses to show the thing that had once been an angel any fear. Those who followed Lucifer and did not have the good sense to Fall into Hell or die on the battlefield had been cruelly punished. But he is done apologizing what was done at the dawn of human times. He’s not strong enough to smite the disgraceful shadow of corrupted grace in front of him, but he can make it hurt. He closes his fist, masking the glow of the grace as he gathers it, waiting for the thing to stop crowning and bite him already. The heads move and he raises his hand, hoping to at least stun the larger one. 

He never makes contact. He can feel the foul breath on his skin, the rotten smell of it wash over him. There is a retina-searing explosion of light, laced with blacks streaks that seem to absorb any natural light around it, then nothing. The amphisbaena slumps to the ground, venom pooling from its mouth, but its eyes glassy and empty.

“I suppose I shouldn’t pet this one either?” asks Eileen, pulling free the angel blade.

Gadreel lets himself fall back on the ground, breathing deeply, redirecting grace to staunching the blood loss from the torn muscles in his leg. “No, I would not recommend it,” he says with a laugh, once the pain subsides.

“What will happen to the cat?” Eileen asks. “I mean, I guess this is the thing that was feeding it?”

“I’ll ask it to go back deeper into the desert. They usually drink fermented cactus juices, there’s nothing here for it and too many humans.” Gadreel accepts Eileen’s hand and gets up, putting weight tentatively on his wound. “There’s so very few of them left, I would rather not destroy it.”

“Do you think Dean is allergic to all cats?” She digs through her bag and finds the bottle of lighter fluid to burn the body. He lights the match and they both move upwind, to avoid the fumes from the rapidly consumed shell as it falls to ashes. 

“I’d rather not find out,” he answers. “One banishing sigil a year is plenty for me.” 

“Spoilsport,” she answers.

The hike back down to the road is easier. A bird cries overhead as they pile back into Eileen’s car.


End file.
